Out of Uniform
by Olympya
Summary: Written in response to an 'Out of Uniform' challenge.


"Papa said it to us often. But he needn't have. We, anyone, could see it every time he looked into her eyes. She was the love of his life. She had been since the first time he laid eyes on her.

* * *

><p>He only told us about that first meeting once. How she came tumbling into his life on the arm of Walker Keel. How, when his eyes fell upon her fiery red hair, her clear alabaster skin, her piercing blue eyes... he lost his heart forever. How, when he learned she was taken with Jack, his heart broke cleanly in two pieces and he wondered just how he would live without her.<p>

He couldn't though. He refused to. He always said that he preferred to have her in his life, even if it had to be as his friend, than not at all. I have always wondered how he managed. They spent years apart and then all of a sudden, there she was, once again, crashing back into his life. He didn't like it of course. Papa was an obstinate man; he'd spent many years away from her and he wasn't sure just how he'd cope with her back in his life. But back into his life she came. She was just as stubborn. She refused to leave and so, for many years, there she was – right beside him. Just where he had always wanted her to be. Only now he couldn't reach out in the way he wanted. So many events had taken place. Wounding them both and causing so much pain. And so, Papa lived with it, and over the years they formed an unbreakable bond – one stronger than friendship. One based on a mutual love and understanding of each other. They called it being best friends, but anyone could see it was so much more.

It took them over twenty years to 'get together.' He never divulged the details about what kept them apart all that time or _why _they were finally together. He was such a private man. Mind you, so was she. Aunt Dee said that she had never met such private people. Yet, they were always completely open and loving around us. Very few people got to see them as we did. All we knew was, it had happened, and they were at long last, where they should have been.

* * *

><p>Aunt Dee always said that she had never known two people to be as perfect for each other as Mom and Papa. None so destined to be together. And she was right. I wouldn't do either of them the injustice of saying they were two halves of a whole. They weren't. They were two completely independent, completely whole people. But when they were together, there was nothing more right in the entire world.<p>

You could see it in the way they stood next to each other. The way they spoke to each other. And always in the way they looked at each other. They liked to think that they hid it well in public, their constant want of privacy rarely allowing them to make physical contact with each other. It never worked - the love between them was almost tangible and you would have had to have been blind to have missed it.

Never, in private though, did they let more than a few minutes go by without sharing a look, a whisper, a touch – even if there'd been a disagreement between them.

I remember in our quarters, Mom and Papa would settle at opposite ends of the sofa, each with a book or a PADD, reading quietly with their legs stretched out towards each other. When either Christopher or I dragged our attention away from our game or book, we would always be greeted by a familiar sight. Mom would have shifted herself along the sofa and nestled into Papa. He would have swung his feet so that they rested on the coffee table – something that he otherwise would not allow - and draped his arm around Mom, pulling her into him, whilst she curled her legs up under her. Other times Mom would crawl in front of Papa, lying with her back against him and Papa would attempt to balance his book above Mom without it falling on her head, whilst she lay comfortably reading her own book in front of him. More often than not though, we would find Mom lying beside Papa, facing him, having left her book at the other end of the sofa and Papa's arm around her whilst he read his book out loud to her.

They couldn't keep away from each other. They didn't want to.

* * *

><p>I'll never forget the day when Papa told us the story about <em>how<em> Mom had finally let him love her the way he'd always wanted to. The way his face beamed as he recalled the day. The special smile other people rarely got to see. I can remember it all.

Papa would often lie on the sofa with Christopher in his arms. Mom would sit on the floor, her back against the sofa, me in her arms, as Papa would play with her beautiful hair and she would mine. Then he'd tell us stories about himself and Mom. She would interject with little details he'd missed out or things to make us laugh, but for the most part, she was content to let him talk. She loved, we loved, listening to his soothing baritone voice. It made her, us, feel safe. The way it calmly, unhurriedly told the story but managed to ooze such love and contentment at the same time. I don't think any of us were ever happier than in those moments. Sometimes one or more of us would be so relaxed and content that we would doze off. Sometimes it would be Mom! Papa would always mock scold her when it happened, but Mom would giggle and say that it was his fault for having such a soothing voice.

More often than not, towards the end of any story, Papa would have his hand rested on Mom's shoulder, whilst she caressed it with the thumb of her free hand. Always though, at the end, she would turn her head and kiss his hand while it idly stroked her. After this particular story though, I reached over and quickly kissed his hand before Mom had the chance. The action prompted a tickling bout from Mom and soon we were all rolling around on the floor, in hysterics.

I remember Mom won. At least I think she did. She finally managed to extricate herself from Papa's grasp, and the next thing we knew, he was flat on the floor and she was sitting on top of his chest, looking mightily triumphant. She had his arms pinned above his head with one hand and beckoned us to join her with the other hand. Christopher took on his arm pits whilst I set about working on his feet. Oh, how he thrashed. He was very ticklish – not that you would ever have guessed from looking at him. He prided himself on being able to keep his emotions from showing on his face and very seldom let other people know what he was feeling. That was, when he wasn't with _us_. As you can imagine, he managed to overthrow us. Christopher and I ran out of his reach, to the safety of the sofa, squealing, but Mom wasn't so lucky! We sat there with our hands over our eyes, listening to Mom's laugh as it descended into a cackle, and I remember when I separated my fingers to have a peek, Mom was the one with her back against the floor with her arms pinned above her head! Papa was sitting on top of her, gazing into her eyes with a look mirroring all the love that showed when he looked at Christopher and me. Mom's face was radiant and her eyes twinkled under Papa's gaze. He always managed to make her shine like that, even with a single look. Not long after, the connection reluctantly broke and Mom decided that we had had enough entertainment for the evening and that we should retire to bed. She and Papa came to tuck us in as usual. It was Mom's turn to read to us that night, so she took her place next to me whilst Papa settled next to Christopher. I remember that she all but ran out of the room once the story was over, hastily giving each of us a goodnight kiss to the forehead. Papa wasn't far behind her.

* * *

><p>A few years later, we were on holiday at Papa's family home in Labarre, visiting Aunt Marie. It is such a beautiful house and Papa was so proud of it. It is the humble abode of the Picard vineyards, wherein the <em>marvellous<em> Picard wine is produced. He loved taking us there, giving us the guided tour, showing and talking us through the history of the house, the vineyard and the wine making. Mom would hold his hand and walk quietly beside him, sometimes behind him if the pathway would not allow otherwise. But always, she held his hand. She never really spoke when Papa would tell us of this history, but it is only as I grew older and bore witness to it on several occasions, that I understood her reasoning for doing so.

Papa had had a difficult childhood. From a young age, he'd had a dream. A dream to be amongst the stars. A dream that had caused his own papa to all but disown him, his only brother to resent him. Thank goodness for his Maman who took it upon herself to encourage him to realise and work towards that dream.

Papa was extremely proud of his heritage, and conveyed this to us during our visits to Labarre. Showing us and talking his way around the land was his way of tying us into our past. Sometimes a look would pass over Papa's face as he recounted a particular part of his childhood. But this would pass with a squeeze from Mom's hand. She never spoke during these times, she didn't need to. The squeeze of her hand was all Papa needed to remind him of her presence. To remind him that it was part of his past, and that she, we, were his present and future, and we were there for him.

One night, during one of our visits, Christopher and I were in bed when I heard faint music from outside, below our window. Scrambling up and kneeling on my bed to look out, I saw Mom and Papa sitting on the back porch. They were eating dinner and talking quietly, only barely audible above the music. The bed dipped as Christopher joined me to have a peek. Silently, I grabbed Christopher's hand and tugged him towards the door, gesturing him to be quiet as we headed for the stairs. We crept down and snuck into the kitchen, where we took up residence beside the back door. The door was closed, but the netted screen allowed us to see out. The only light came from a small arrangement of candles in the middle of the outside table. It was just enough to show Mom's face. Papa had his back to us, but I hardly noticed as Mom's hair glowed fiercely in the candle light. She looked so happy sitting with Papa. She was so very beautiful. Papa always said that he was glad that both Christopher and I had inherited Mom's red hair.

The music changed, and with it, Papa reached across the table and took the wine glass out of Mom's hand and set it down on the surface. He reached back across for her hand, and as he did, he exited his chair and stood in front of Mom. I watched as he asked,

"Would you grace me with a dance Madame Picard?"

Mom giggled, and as he pulled her out of her seat, she replied softly,

"Of course, it would be my pleasure Monsieur Picard."

I watched silently as Papa pulled her in close and she rested her head on his shoulder. I turned to Christopher, but he was sleeping softly, his head lolled back against the counter. Looking to the stars and praying that he didn't start snoring, I turned back to watch Mom and Papa as they swayed seamlessly in the low light. I had never seen them dance together before and I was spellbound. The way they melted into one another and moved as one was breathtaking.

How Mom loved to dance. She was an amazing dancer. She had been teaching Christopher and me to dance practically since the moment we could stand on two feet. Christopher always complained and asked why he had to dance when _Papa_ didn't dance. Mom said that just because Papa _didn't_ dance didn't mean that he couldn't, and she wasn't letting either of us follow in _his _footsteps. Christopher would protest every now and then, but we were both aware of how happy it made Mom that we enjoyed joining her in her dancing sessions. Oh, how we wanted to make her happy.

Mom moved her head off Papa's shoulder, bringing me back into the present. She rested her forehead against his and they gazed into each other's eyes. I was still fairly young then, but as Mom's blue eyes looked into Papa's hazel ones, it was hard to miss the amount of love that flowed between them. It was as if the whole world had crumbled away and all that was left was only the two of them. In that moment, I could only ever hope to love and be loved as completely as Mom and Papa loved one another. I couldn't pull my eyes away from them as Mom tilted her face and nudged Papa's nose with hers. A small smile crossed her face as she lifted a solitary eyebrow. Without another second passing by, Papa brushed his lips across hers – an action which elicited a sigh from all three of us.

I felt a hand on my shoulder and jumped at suddenly being pulled out of my reverie. Turning slightly, expecting to come face to face with Christopher, I very nearly jumped again when presented with the face of my Aunt Marie. She pulled a finger up to her lips to indicate quiet and then carefully picked up Christopher from his still sleeping position, perching him on her hip. Taking my hand within hers, she turned once more towards the mesh door and, we both looked out at the scene before us. There in the candlelight, Mom had her cheek rested against Papa's and was melded against him, so that without knowing otherwise, anyone would have guessed that they were a single person. Pulling gently at my hand and turning silently, Marie led us quietly out of the kitchen, back up the stairs and tucked us back into our beds. With a gentle smile on her face, she told me to settle to sleep, and then left for her own room. Sitting up once more, I leant towards the window, looking down at my parents and saw that all was right with the world."

* * *

><p>"And now they're gone."<p>

"And now they're gone." I say, a rogue tear falling from my eye. "We always knew that once one of them went, it wouldn't be long before the other followed. They loved us so completely. There has never been a moment when we thought otherwise. But we always knew that they could not live without the other. Oh, they loved us more than life itself, but - they were each other's heart. They were each other's soul. They were each other's reason for being. And as much as we shall miss them, we can forever take solace in the knowledge that they are both where they have always wanted to be. Together."


End file.
